


there's a song we sing together

by weatheredlaw



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Derealization, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Identity Issues, Jealousy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Slow Build, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He might be a screw up, and he might never be totally okay, but Clint does know one thing. </p><p>He knows what's keeping him going. And he's pretty sure he knows what saved him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a song we sing together

Darcy leans forward and across the table, snatches a forkful of sweet potato fries from Clint's plate and shoves them in her mouth, says through the bite, "So you stole a dog from what was, essentially, a crime scene." 

"You make it sound like I committed a felony. I asked if I could _have_ the dog and Sitwell said yes."

"Is she mangy and adorable and impossible to be mad at?"

"You mean does she look _exactly_ like me?"

Darcy rolls her eyes. "Funny."

"You think so." Clint snags the red onions from her salad, avoiding the point of her knife as she pushes away his hand. He leans back in the booth and looks around, realizes they're the only ones left. The owner doesn't seem to be in any hurry to kick them out -- Clint's not the kind of guy who gets recognized, not like Stark, but Darcy has this way when they're out together of slow-talking everyone into believing Clint's who he is and, somehow, they end up at a bistro near the tower way past closing time. 

It's nice, just a little bit. 

Darcy reaches into her purse around eleven, though, to get out her card and pay the bill. Clint feels his face get stupidly hot and stands up abruptly, stopping her. "No, it's good. I got this."

"Dude. Do _not_ make this weird. For, like, the third time in a row, okay? I'm getting this, we're good." 

Clint drops back into his chair and lets Darcy pay the bill. The bus-boy is laughing at him.

Fucking figures.

 

 

He calls the dog Lucky. She answers to the name in a few days, sleeps all over Clint's bed and is, in fact, mangy and adorable and impossible to be mad at. 

"S'good girl," Clint murmurs the first night, and turns out the lamp.

 

 

He met Darcy for the first time in New Mexico. They spent five minutes together, her with one hand on her hip, the other extended, waiting for her stolen goods. Clint had spent more time than he wanted going through Coulson's boxes of _shit_ , looking for this girl's freaking _iPod_. To her credit, she was very patient, compared to the woman she seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time forcing to eat real food. 

"It's black," was the only bit of absolutely _unhelpful_ advice she could give him before Clint finally unearthed it from underneath a box of _other_ confiscated, _black_ , electronics.

Unfortunately, it had been wiped.

Clint used to be a Marine, so he's not afraid of angry people. But he knew some guys back in basic who were "hard core" and they would have _wet themselves_ after seeing the look on this girl's face. 

"Not my division," were his last words to her before he shut the hatch of the truck and climbed in, leaving her in a cloud of orange dust.

He felt bad about it, but not really, when they met up again in the tower, she being re-introduced as Pepper's-but-really-my assistant by Tony who gave her a list of a hundred things to do and vanished. Her face had gone slack, but only briefly, before she seemed to be enveloped in a glow of _get shit done_ and crossed off at least half the list right off the bat. " _Buy me socks_ is not one of my duties, Mr. Stark." 

Now, she doesn't even need a list. She's looking over her phone with her tiny play-by-play of the day and taking notes in a leather-bound book and tossing questions out as Clint gets ready for a team meeting. 

"So you're...a hammer."

"Lewis. No more Cosmo quizzes."

" _Cosmo_ is no longer in print. I think."

Clint deadpans, "It's not," and comes out of his room, pulling on his jacket. "Shouldn't you be with Potts right now? Big party to plan." Darcy shrugs and flips through her binder. "Are those cakes? Cap's birthday isn't for another month."

"I'm a vision of preparedness. Steve seems like a vanilla guy."

"He probably likes carrot cake. I gotta split, hang around if you want. Feed the dog if you're gonna be here for a while."

"Yes, dear."

"Whatever, Lewis." He tries to say it with a bit of venom, but he's far too endeared for a temperament like that with her now. She just smiles and flips another page of the binder over as he goes. Clint keeps his eye on her until he can't anymore, and she vanishes behind the door with everything else.

 

 

On the first of May, Tony throws a gala to raise money for the city repairs that never seem to end. It's equal parts embarrassing and a really good excuse to sip on white wine in a white button down and pants that grip his asscheeks. Pepper slides up next to him.

"Have you seen Darcy?"

Clint raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, I'm off duty." He drains the glass. 

"No, I meant have you _seen_ her? She's got Donald Trump turned to putty. And he only showed up to this thing because he thought Rahm Emanuel was coming."

"You guys know Rahm Emanuel?" 

"She looks good." Clint glances between them -- Darcy in her cut, cream dress and navy pumps, hair curled and framing her face; Pepper in her cocktail dress and heels, black from shoulder to stiletto.

"Sorry, I think these pants are cutting off circulation to my brain. Are you hitting on her, or are you trying to set us up?"

Pepper rolls her eyes and takes a flute champagne from a waiter. "Just ask her to homecoming already. She'll say yes."

"Homecoming's in the fall."

"I'm about five seconds from giving up on you ever being a real, actual grown-up."

"Duly noted, Miss Potts." Clint drains the last of his wine and hands the glass off. Darcy's throwing looks around the room, trying to get away from Trump and the gaggle of investors who've abandoned shop talk. Clint puts a hand on her waist. "Wanna dance?"

"Yes, _please._ " She clasps his hands and they sink into the others on the dance floor. Darcy throws a look over her shoulder. "The unshakable Trump Tower has just been shaken. Nice work, goof." 

"Any time." He shifts his hands and looks down. "You look good." 

"You look like you're this close to trying out for Chippendales." 

"I did try out for Chippendales, once. Part of a cover." Darcy raises a brow. "Yeah, Lewis. I got in. Thank you for controlling your laughter."

"I'm saving it for a sad day." They sway in time to the music, something jazzy that Stark probably didn't pick out, though from the way Clint can see Potts hanging all over him, he just might have, agenda in hand. Darcy finally draws back, glancing up at the clock. "I need to make some rounds. I'll catch you in a bit?" 

"Sure thing." Clint watches her go, retreating back to his corner, now plus one. Steve leans against the wall like it's going to keep him from falling. "Rough time?" He offers him a glass of wine. Steve downs it all. 

"It shouldn't bother me. I believe in this. This is right."

"Guess that's why it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself, then?" Steve frowns into his empty glass. "Hey, I get it."

Steve turns his head sharply. "Do you?" He closes his eyes. "Sorry. _Sorry_. That was..." He looks down, back up, convincing himself. "I'm having a hard time." 

Clint lifts his glass, hesitating. "I know, chief."

"How do you handle it?" Steve manages to find a glass of water. Clint looks over. "Like...we all...we all _went through something_. How are you dealing with it?" 

"Therapy," he says simply. "Lots of it. Never really been put off by it. I always liked having someone to talk to, and now I do. Three, four times a week. You wake up, you can't sleep. You roll into someone's office in the morning and it's nice that they kind of already know why, and you don't have to hash that out again." Clint smiles. "Also I got a dog, so." 

Steve huffs. "I don't really like animals." 

"Well." Clint tips his glass back. "They can't all be winners."

 

 

"I hear your gala was a success." 

Clint looks up from where he's unthreading a portion of his jeans and gives his therapist half of a smile. "Stark knows how to throw a party. Bunch of people from that island show were there. Where they're all, like, stuck or whatever."

" _Lost_ ," she supplies. Clint nods. 

"Yeah. I was in Paris when it started. I hate walking into shows in the middle of things." 

His shrink's name is Dr. Green, and she's nice and pleasant and doesn't push him too hard. Clint doesn't _mind_ therapy, and he's felt better since he's started going. But he likes to move at his own pace, and Green's pretty good at that. 

"You look rested."

"I feel good. I might have had too much wine, yesterday." Clint shrugs. "But it was alright."

"You're being social. That's making progress. Do you like the tower?"

Clint hesitates. "Might have been a bit much, at first. I just..." He shakes his head. There's a lot of unspoken dialogue between them, which Clint doesn't mind. He likes talking to people, but he likes it when someone's good enough to fill in the gaps. 

"Well, we've stopped putting our fellow agents in medical, which is a major step."

"Yeah," Clint huffs. "A whole three months without punching a coworker in the face." 

"And I'm sure every single one of them deserved it. But--"

"Violence is a temporary solution to a permanent problem." 

Green nods. "Good. Very good."

Clint leans back in his chair, finally relaxing. They fall into a subtle push and pull of information and he talks his way through the session, does the recommended deep breathing exercises, and heads home.

 

 

The first weeks after the Midtown incident, Clint was a mess. 

Mess might be putting it lightly, maybe, but he doesn't like to look back on it and be too harsh with himself. And to his credit, he only put three agents in medical.

So, really, it could have been a lot worse.

The problem wasn't with the staring. He got that. Still gets it, because people are still staring. He remembered agents who'd had their heads messed with. It was always a rough road coming back. But now he was on the other side of the glass, and rough didn't even _begin_ to cover it. 

"Just look at me," Natasha murmured. Thursday, exactly eleven days since Thor and his brother had phoned home and headed back up. Clint kept his eyes on the edge of her ear, shoving food into his mouth. No one had said anything, and Clint wasn't keeping his ear to the ground by any means. Whatever they wanted to tell each other, Clint didn't want to hear it. 

Whatever they wanted to say to him, he didn't want to hear that, either.

Even now, he doesn't really remember what happened the first time. Something harsh was said, and Clint would have understood that, being upset. Some good agents had died, and he'd been a part of it. But he was working through that. He was _trying_ and now someone had just said, _Chicken shit. I would have fought it,_ and Clint was on his feet before he could think and he heard Natasha calling him back, trying to bite through the fog, but he had a tray in his hands and someone's face in his knee before he could think about it.

He didn't fight it when they detained him. 

Fury had come by himself and sat in the cell while Clint hung his head guiltily. He laid down his sentence -- two days of therapy a week, minimum, for six months. No active duty for three. Any subsequent incidents would lead to more.

Two more agents later, he was up to three, sometimes four days with Green a week, and he was limited to reserve duty, no end in sight. 

 

 

Clint runs into Darcy as he's leaving the tower. 

Like, literally. Runs right into her. 

"Fuck, my _tailbone_." She looks up, taking Clint's hand. "Oh, it's you. How's Shrinkville?"

"Balmy, chance of showers. You heading out?"

"Book shopping." She holds up her phone and Clint leans in, squinting. "Syllabi."

"Syllabi. Oh, you--"

"Got into law school at Columbia. Last night. Well, I found _out_ last night. Registered for classes. Stark's having a conniption. I left him in his lab with an egg sandwich and a diet peach Snapple. He looked like he was having a mini stroke or something."

"He hates Columbia that much?" Clint starts walking with her, opening the door as she goes out and slips her sunglasses on.

"He hates being wrong that much. He was so sure I'd say no when I got accepted. But that's because he's a fucking idiot. Love 'im, but he's an idiot." She doesn't say anything about Clint walking with her to the bookstore, and Clint doesn't think much on it. He's been talking to Dr. Green all morning, and listening to Darcy's idle chatter is comforting, at the very least. She manages to keep up a constant, steady stream of conversation on the subway and into the store, where she hands off two enormous tote bags to Clint and fills them. 

"Ugh, I hate Latin." Clint flips through one of the books at lunch, thumbing over the glossary. "I learned Latin for a mission once."

"Undercover monk?"

"Undercover LARPing, actually." Darcy chokes on her cherry coke. "Hey, it was really intense stuff, okay? I put at least a month into my costume."

"Oh god, tell me you weren't--"

"A page. I was a page. You couldn't jump in and be a night. Well, Coulson could. But that's Coulson. He's got those _don't fuck with me_ eyes. I still just manage to look like a poor kid begging for scraps." He pauses. "Had. He had those eyes." Darcy looks into her plate. "You should be careful. Stark might hire you as his personal attorney." 

The mood picks up again. "I would walk into moving traffic before that happened." 

"You already buy his socks."

"I had that clause removed from my contract, thank you very much." Clint grins around his sandwich, watching her drink from her soda glass defiantly. "You and Steve go on bro dates here, don't you?"

"On occasion, yes, Steve and I engage in what you might call 'friendship.'"

Darcy grins, straw between her teeth. "Cute." 

 

 

"So. I took into consideration everything you asked for." Clint looks up from the repair work on his bow. Tony's rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking grotesquely pleased with himself. Clint bites.

"Okay."

"Walk with me, feathers." Clint abandons his work and trails after Stark, listening to him babble. "Anyway." He punches a code into the elevator which takes them up a dozen floors. "You said the size was a problem."

"Of the apartment?"

"Uh, yeah? Keep up, keep up." Tony keys into Clint's rooms -- problem, red alert, he'll get that changed later -- and the door opens up. "Now you can stop living in a bedroom."

The space used to be large, open, too much for Clint to comprehend or live in. It's a combination of everything, really -- he knows he's got PTSD and he knows he's got it bad, but he used to hide in cabinets as a kid to keep his brother Barney from pinching and prodding, to keep his dad off his skin. Crawl-spaces and caves became his safe place and he never grew out of it. 

He may not always like Stark, but he didn't have to say much. Filling in the gaps. It all came together with a look and Clint appreciates that, probably more than he's able to say right now. 

The room's delightfully shrunk, now. Clint's been sleeping in a guest room several floors below, refusing on principle to even be near this space. But it's more than halved, now, the kitchen and living room nearly on top of one another, a solitary bedroom shut off from the rest of it. 

_You did this for me_ , won't seem to crawl its way out of Clint's throat. Tony just stands there, waggling his eyebrows and waiting. "So?"

"It's..." Clint takes a tentative step in. "Yeah. Yeah, this is good." 

"Now you've got a way more acceptable bachelor pad to woo Lewis in."

"Yeah, I'm--" He pauses. "I am not _wooing_ Darcy."

"Uh, yeah, you are."

"That isn't happening."

"Whatever." Tony starts flipping through his phone. "She already likes it--"

" _Out_." Tony cackles on his way to the elevator, already moving onto something else. Clint is finally alone, again, with his tiny box of space. He goes to the other side of the room, knowing that beyond the door is the range Tony's been promising him. 

He hesitates over the handle. 

His phone buzzes violently in his pocket. 

"Hey, Lewis."

"I like your new digs."

Clint steps away from the door and laughs, flipping over the back of the couch. "Thanks." Someone knocks at the door with Lucky and she bounds into Clint's arms. "Lucky's a fan."

"What a stand-up gal." She shifts the phone. "Stark was pretty proud of it. He made me swear not to tell you anything about it. Believe me, it was hard. I'm statistically the worst secret keeper. Like, ever."

"Well, thank you for your discretion." Lucky settles on the floor and whines happily. "So when are you starting classes?"

"Six weeks."

"You really are a vision of preparedness."

"I like to have plans." She clears her throat. "Pepper gave me some tickets to the theatre."

"You should take your boyfriend from the PR office. Ricky, or whatever."

Darcy gags. "Oh god, please. I'm eating. I feel like I'm being exposed to radioactive poisoning every time I get near his desk."

"Well, maybe you'll turn into Spider-Girl or something."

"Funny." 

Clint gets off the couch to make himself something to eat. "Theatre tickets, huh?"

"I'm asking you to go with me, doofus." 

"I picked up on that." 

"Forget it. Stark--"

"Tony put you up to this?"

"He _suggested_ that I use the tickets in this manner. It wasn't a fucking dare." 

"Right, yeah, no I get it." He drops a tomato on the floor and swears. "I wanna go."

"Don't if you're--"

"Lewis. Let's go. It'll be fun. I'll take you to a French restaurant or something. Live it up. Charge it to the Stark Card."

"Can we get a stretch limo?"

"Don't push your luck."

 

 

"You're going on a date with a civilian."

"Darcy--" Clint ducks Natasha's fist, but doesn't catch her heel, topping back onto the mat. He recovers, goes at her again. "--is hardly a civilian. She works for Tony Stark."

"You forget how much of a civilian Tony Stark really is," she says, but she's smiling. Another swing. Dodge, dodge, hit, miss. "And it's not a beratement. I'm happy for you."

"It's not a date."

"You called to ask me what you should _wear_ , Clint."

"And you were useless, by the way, so thanks." Natasha lands a kick in his chest and he tumbles back, surrendering to the floor and staring up at her.

She reaches out a hand and smiles. "You're gonna be fine."

 

 

The last date Clint went on was three years ago.

And that's it. That's pretty much the story. 

 

 

"That was, uh. That was good."

Darcy leans back in her chair and smiles at him. "You're hopeless, Clint Barton."

"I'm _positive._ The stage direction was clean."

"You fell asleep."

"So did you," he counters. Darcy surrenders, reaching out for the bread at the table, her fingers bumping his.

Clint's heart skips a beat. 

 

 

"When was the last time you were intimate with someone?"

Clint looks up at his shrink. "Huh?"

"Sex, Clint. When was the last time you had sex?"

"I know what intimate means," he mutters, leaning back, pressing his palms over his eyes. "I don't know. A year, maybe? Maybe? I can't remember. Before New Mexico, that's for damn sure." So that makes it more than a year. Wonderful. 

"Are you interested in sleeping with Miss Lewis." Clint opts for honesty and gives a short nod. "You should tell her that."

"Right. Because I wanna scare off the first woman who's paid any attention to me since I started hangin' out with you." Dr. Green tilts her head. "She doesn't want anything to do with me. Not like that."

"How do you know?"

"No one does," Clint says shortly. 

"You don't know that."

"No," he agrees. "But right now it's just easier to think that. I don't…" He flexes his hands. "I don't think I'm ready. For that."

"Intimacy could push your healing further along, or draw you back into yourself," Green says, scribbling a few things down. "Only you can decide when you're ready. Here." She hands him an envelope.

"What's this?"

"Tickets to something a little more fun than _Death of A Salesman_."

 

 

" _Aw, come on, that was fucking out_!" Clint glances over to where Darcy is standing on top of her seat, gesturing violently toward the field. A few hundred people behind her agree loudly and obscenely. "Motherfucker," she mutters, plopping back down angrily.

"Didn't know you were such a baseball fan."

"That was so _clearly_ out, oh my god." She flips off the field. Again. Clint laughs and shakes his head, leaning back and sucking on his soda. Darcy angles herself toward him. "This is fun. I haven't been to a game in a while."

"Me either," he admits. 

"Where'd you get tickets?"

"Steve," he lies, adjusting his cap. Darcy's got a matching one, both of which she bought on impulse on the way in. Clint's not really a Mets fan, but he's not a Yankees fan either, or any other kind of fan, so he figures he's gotta pick sides at some point. And Darcy seems to be enjoying herself. Clint catches himself looking at her. Green had asked if he wanted to sleep with Darcy, but she'd really been asking him if he was interested in her. If he could have something with her. In the moment, he couldn't imagine it. All he could imagine was Darcy being angry, Darcy being scared of him. Darcy not wanting anything to do with him.

Watching her cat-call the umpire, Clint wonders if it's too late to change his answer

 

 

"I need you to pretend you gave me tickets to a Mets game." 

Steve's shoving a pastrami sandwich in his mouth, but stops short of chewing. "Who'd you go with?"

"Doesn't matter. If anyone asks--"

"You mean if Darcy asks." 

Clint rolls his eyes. "Yeah, if--" He stops. "She already did."

"Why do you think you bought lunch today?" 

"I knew she didn't believe me." 

Steve grins. "She's sweet on you."

"She's not."

"Sure she is. Talks about you a lot. Asks about you, too." He finally takes his bite. "You guys had fun at the game, didn't you?" Clint shrugs. "Come on, Barton."

"She's fun. She's too young for me, but she's fun. The age thing isn't so important I guess. I never really had a problem with it. I just…" He shakes his head. "Everything we do. Everything I've _done_ \--"

"You're worried about getting her more involved than she already is."

"I'm a mess, Steve. I don't sleep some nights. I see my shrink three, four times a week. I got a dog as a comfort thing, man." 

"How's that working for you?"

"Really well, surprisingly." Clint looks at Steve. "How are you?"

"Better," he admits. "Kind of been running around for Fury the last couple weeks. Met a girl," he adds, swelling up a bit. "Woman. I met a woman. Another agent."

"Okay."

"You think it's a bad idea." Clint shrugs. "You should probably think it's a bad idea for other reasons." Clint lifts a brow waiting. "Her name's Sharon Carter."

" _You're dating Sharon Carter?_ " Steve hushes him. "She's is a class-A unapproachable, undatable woman."

"She _likes_ me. We've gone out a few times."

"Chief." Clint clasps him on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you." 

"Thanks." Steve looks at Clint like he's about to feel sorry for him, and Clint looks away. "You're happy, aren't you?"

Staring out the window of the deli, Clint spots a woman with dark curls coming out of the bank, stopping on the sidewalk to kiss someone on the cheek, his broad hands clasping her close, for just a second, before they take off down the street. 

"Yeah." He looks back at Steve. "I'm okay."

 

 

Natasha leans against his shoulder in the subway. If she were anyone else, Clint would think she was falling asleep. 

"Why are you emotionally constipated?" she murmurs.

"Because my daddy didn't love me."

She sits up. "Clint."

"I don't know, Nat." 

"Darcy likes you." 

"You know what's funny? Everyone _except_ Darcy has told me that." 

"She's busy. She's young. She thinks you'll say no. I could list a hundred other reasons."

"I like Darcy, too," he murmurs. "I like her a lot." 

"Tell her that."

Clint closes his eyes. "Now's not a good time."

"It's never a good time for you." Natasha's head goes back to his shoulder.

"Maybe that's my lot in life."

"Sorry lot," she says quietly.

Neither of them says anything else. 

 

 

Darcy goes on a day with a boy from her Constitutional Law class on Friday. Everyone in the tower spends the next few days walking around him on egg shells, until he can't take it anymore and he begs off a team building night to be alone. 

He doesn't care that she's going out with someone else. He doesn't. 

Okay. He does. He cares a little bit. He cares because he likes her and because he met this guy named Scott for a minute on his way out in the most awkward moment of the week and he thinks he looks kind of like a pug, but whatever. 

He hopes she's happy.

 

 

"You're feeling jealous. This is good."

"Is it?" Clint looks sharply at Dr. Green. She doesn't even blink. "Because it feels fucking obnoxious. I _feel_ like an asshole."

"It's better than lost. How many times have you told me that that's the only way you feel, Clint?"

Too many to count.

"Everyone said that she...nevermind. It's stupid."

"It clearly matters."

"No." Clint shakes his head. "No, it doesn't. It doesn't matter at all." 

He realizes it's the first session he's wanted to get out of so badly that he can't stand it, and Green must sense it. She tells him to go, tells him to be careful, and the first thing Clint does, after bursting onto the street, sensing night approaching, is go to a bar. 

 

 

It's not Darcy or the way he feels about Darcy that has him lifting his sixth drink of the night. It really, definitely is not. It isn't even the fact that she's out with some guy, out doing whatever and out definitely not wanting to be with him that makes him buy the seventh and eighth.

It's just another disappointment to add onto the pile. It's another wasted feeling, realizing that he's fucked, that he's a fuck up, that he can't _do_ anything without losing something else in the end. Because he's getting better. He's feeling better. Darcy helped him. Tony helped him. Steve, Thor, Bruce. God, _Natasha._ Everyone's helped him. He sees now that getting better has just meant sacrificing a good woman. A great woman. To a guy who looks like an extra from _The Sandlot_. 

"You look familiar." 

Clint turns toward a woman's voice and already knows he's going to feel stupid in the morning. 

 

 

Someone is holding out a cup of coffee right by his nose and Clint is very tempted to punch it away. 

"Are you up?"

 _Aw, hell._

"Uh." He dares to open his eyes. He's clothed, apparently, and on a couch. The woman gives up and sets the mug on the coffee table. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm up." She sits in a chair opposite him and Clint does his best to assume a similar position. It doesn't work very well. "We didn't--"

"No." She cuts him off. "You came back here with me and then told me that you had feelings for someone who was dating a twelve year old and collapsed onto my sofa."

Clint looks at her, reaching forward with a weak hand to grab the mug from the table. Then: "Please don't tell anyone about this."

"Believe me," she says dryly. "No one's gonna think it happened anyway."

 

 

"Hey, girl." Clint falls like a rag onto his bed and Lucky jumps up, licking his face until he gently pushes her away. He takes in the scent of the tower, the feel of his apartment and room, and smiles. "S'good to be home."

 

 

He knows he doesn't have any right to be jealous. His shrink thinks it's good, but Natasha thinks he's an idiot. This isn't exactly news.

"Look. She's right there. Go _talk_ to her before this thing starts."

Clint hisses, "No," and crosses his arms over his chest. He feels Natasha's boot dig into his fit. " _Jesus,_ fine!"

He has to make his way around a giddy, jumpy Stark, who approaches press conferences like he's strung out, but pleased with himself. Impromptu events like this always have him wired. Darcy is directing some reporters to their seats. Clint tries not to notice her look of _I would rather nose-dive off this stage than talk to you_ expression as he gets closer.

"Hi."

"Agent Barton."

"How's, uh. How's Simon?"

"Scott."

Clint snaps his fingers. "Right. I knew that."

"You have a seat."

"Actually I…I thought I'd sit with you. If that's okay." Darcy blinks and plops down, moving her things off the chair next to her. Clint settles into it carefully. 

The next fifteen minutes pass in a deafening, overwhelming silence.

"Look, Clint, I--" The moment she opens her mouth to speak, Clint sees Natasha stand, and when he looks to where she's looking, he sees it, too. That's when the gunfire starts. And one second, Darcy is there, and the next, she's on the ground, and all Clint can hear from her spot on the stage is _motherfucker_ over and over again. He ducks and drags her behind the curtain, getting them somewhere isolated and peeling off the shoulder of her dress. "Oh my god. Oh my god this hurts. This hurts so fucking bad."

"It went through."

"Please don't describe it to me. _Please_ , whatever you do."

"Sorry," he mutters, peeling out of his button-down and tearing part of it with his teeth. She shudders with the pain, but blinks through it, watching his movements carefully. "I am sorry, you know."

"God, for _what?_ Orchestrating a shooting?"

"For not being honest with you." He hears another round of bullets. "About my feelings."

"Oh my _god_ , Clint. You are not talking about our non-existent dating life in the middle of a shoot-out."

"I am."

She howls. " _Put some damn pressure on that!_ " 

Clint falls a little bit in love. 

 

 

In between the shooting and Darcy getting cleared from medical, Clint and Natasha hunt down the attackers, do a few things they aren't allowed to talk about, and file the "official" report. When Clint gets back to his apartment, Darcy's feeding the dog.

"Oh. You're out."

"This morning," she says, straightening up. "I had someone taking care of her for you, but I wanted to see her this morning. Thought you weren't coming back til tomorrow."

"Finished early." 

"Right." Darcy nods, setting the dog food back in its spot and reaching for her sweater. "I should go."

"Lewis." 

"Clint."

"We need to talk."

"Why?"

"I like you," he says quietly. "I shouldn't, because I'm still a mess and my life is crazy and I live here and work here and do weird shit all the time. But I do. And I know that I couldn't say anything and me being the screw up I am isn't any kind of excuse for that--"

"You're not a screw up."

"Darcy. Believe me. I am. It's one of the things I'm really good it." She looks away. "I know you're with this guy--"

"He's not around anymore." She waves her hand. "Gone, see you later, whatever." She looks at him. "Clint." She steps closer, her head tilting slightly as she reaches out and puts a hand on his chest. "I know you think you're so of messed up beyond repair, but…" She looks up and smiles. "I don't really mind so much."

"You should."

"Hey." Her lips are so close to his, _so close_. "If we're gonna try this out, you need to know that you never get to tell me what to think."

Clint drops his forehead against hers. "Whatever you say, boss lady."

Darcy grins. "That's more like it."

 

 

Dr. Green adjusts her glasses, signing off on their last appointment. "I'm very impressed, Agent Barton?"

"Yeah?" He smiles.

"You've come a long way."

"I had some good help."

She shrugs. "Your progress is determined by your own desire to move forward. I'll let the director know you're ready for active duty."

"Thank you." 

"How's Darcy?"

"Good. Busy. Stark's got her running all over. She's gonna get out of law school and sue his ass for damages, probably." Green laughs. "Thank you, though. For everything."

"I'll be right here. This is my office, this is my space." She stands and Clint stands with her. "You're always welcome in it."

 

 

Fury approves him for active duty, but it's another month before he actually gets sent anywhere. Darcy still has her own place in the tower, but they spend a lot of time sharing a space together in the first few months, and he has to go back and forth between his floor and hers to collect everything he'll need. 

"I told you to get _two_ toothbrushes." She hands him another pair of boots from his closet. "Where are you going again?"

"I don't actually know."

"Is that code for you not being able to tell me?"

"Darcy." He stoops down and kisses her cheek. "We talked about this."

"I'm just a concerned citizen is all. Who also happens to be your girlfriend."

"I won't be able to call you."

"I know," she says quietly. Clint almost says something else before she looks back at him, eyes on fire again. "Good luck." 

They make out a good ten minute after his flight is supposed to leave, and Natasha as to practically wrench them apart before he can be goaded into getting on the plane.

"Told you she liked you."

"Yeah, yeah."

Clint steps into the mouth of the quinjet and watches Darcy until the doors close behind him, swallowing him whole. 

 

 

He falls into this mission like any other. It's routine, it's the same thing over and over again, even when it isn't. He leaves Clint behind, and he lets Hawkeye take root in his bones. They wear their other selves like another skin, and it's good to be with Nat, with Steve, even, who is better at this than they might have thought. They both know what it's like to become someone that people need to see, instead of yourself.

The problem is digging your way out. Natasha is there when he wakes up staring at the white ceiling of Stark's medical floor and trying to realign himself with the rest of the world. 

"We did good," she says quietly.

Hawkeye breathes and rolls over. 

 

 

Darcy looks up from her pot of ramen on the stove after keying him in and smiles. "Hey, stranger. Long time--" He crosses the kitchen in a few strides, stopping just short of the fridge. 

"Can I kiss you?" Darcy turns off the stove, pushes her noodles to the back burner, and he shoves their mouths together. 

It's the first thing he remembered, coming off the medical floor, blinking into the fluorescent elevator lights on his way up to his apartment. He didn't go to her then, because he couldn't remember her name, or what she was to him. He remembered sensations -- her breath against his ear, the noise she made when she came, her nails scratching his back, her laugh when he fell, spent, next to her in bed. _Come on, carnie, you owe me dinner._

It's probably still a bad idea to be here. Sometimes her name slips away, and sometimes the memory of her is trapped in a haze of cream dresses and dancing. She takes his hands in hers and leads him out of the kitchen, tugging him into her bedroom. She goes slow, undressing him and touching him in small places that make him shiver -- fingers pressed to the soft spot behind his head, lips sucking a bruise just over his hip. She urges him onto the bed, backing away with a smile, and undresses herself. 

He wonders if she knows he's still going in and out. That this is like the first time all over again for him. He seals his mouth over her right nipple, flexing his hands on her back to keep her up. Everything from before is a memory. It happened to some other guy, on some other night, with some other woman. One Clint doesn't seem to know the other. 

"Stay with me," she murmurs, rolling over and pulling a condom out of her bedside table. "Hey. Look at me." He focuses. "Do you want to do this?" 

He remembers her name.

"Darcy--"

"Good." She kisses him. "I was worried we were going to have to relearn that bit. So. This." She holds up the condom again. "You're naked. I'm naked. That means shit unless you want it."

"You're asking if you have permission to fuck me?"

"You asked if you could kiss me. I'm big on consent."

" _Yes._ "

"Okay." Darcy sits back and tears open the condom wrapper, rolling it over his cock. 

He watches as he slides into her cunt, watches her leg muscles flex and shift to take him and it reminds him a little bit of who he is. 

He wonders if she knows the risk she's taking, letting Hawkeye into her bed while Clint is still lost in the brine.

It feels like hours pass between the moment he kissed her and the moment he makes her come, his fingers curled tight against her clit as she pants against his ear, trying to keep herself in check. Some night he's going to make her scream. 

" _Clint--_ "

His own name hits him like a ball bat to the head and he comes, sees stars and crows and whatever else as he holds himself inside her, empties into the condom and tries not to topple off the bed and bring her with him. 

Clint is gathering himself back together while Darcy rolls the condom off and ties it before tossing it into the garbage by her bed.

"Holy shit."

Darcy looks up. "Systems back online."

" _Holy shit._ "

"Great, you can buy me dinner then."

"What time is it? Where are we?"

"It's nine AM and we're at a bed and breakfast in Albany. Happy second day of the honeymoon, sweet cheeks. Breakfast's in five."

Clint rolls on his side and looks at her. "Are you actually hungry?"

"You interrupted my dinner, loser."

"No, I interrupted your undergrad roleplaying sesh." Darcy rolls her eyes and sits up, reaching over him for a hair tie and piling her curls on top of her head. "Come on, make me a chocolate cake in a mug."

She looks down at him and shakes her head. "Glad to see you're back with me, Sarge." She pushes herself out of bed and reaches for her bra and shirt. Clint doesn't ask how she knows, or if it's fair to just stay quiet. She's humming to herself now, bubblegum pop music that makes him feel like he's getting old. She looks between jeans and sweats, then to him and says quietly, "Maybe we'll just get a pizza."

Clint thinks he's never understood worship until just now.

 

 

He hadn't even realized it'd been almost a year since the May Day gala, and the fourth sort of creeps up on him, looking a lot like Darcy dressed in spangled leggings and a cream top, pacing the kitchen as she last-minute orders extra cake for Cap's birthday. Tony's pulling out all the stops, securing the blessings from Fury to invite all his Republican friends so he can rub it in their faces that Captain Steve Rogers is a bleeding heart liberal.

"What are these?"

"Gift bags."

"These have spangled condoms in them."

"They've been approved," she scream whispers, waving him off. "No, I need _vanilla_ cake. You don't understand how important it is that I have _vanilla cake_. You cocksucking fuckwad. He put me on hold. Mother fucking dickweed. Fucking shit fuck _fuck._ "

"Yo. Girly girl. It's a _party._ "

" _It's Captain America's birthday._ And more importantly, _I am in charge of cake._ It's like, on my schedule. DARCY YOU ARE IN CHARGE OF CAKE. Tony wrote it. Why am I in charge of cake? Why is this my responsibility? Is it my ass? Do I _look_ like an expert in cake? I don't even _like_ cake. I like _pie._ Jesus fucking Christ. Are you there? Did you hear me? _This is for Captain America's birthday._ " She stalks off and Clint takes it as good a sign as any to shove off for a while.

The actual party turns out to be a PR wet dream. Steve takes photos with talking heads and senators and answers questions about the old days that bring his audiences to tears. If anyone knows how to work a crowd, it's Rogers. He turns away from a reporter, grinning, but drops the act when he realizes it's just Clint.

"Nice goin' out there, Cap."

"I have a headache and I hate everyone. Is that symptomatic of something larger?"

"Disillusionment with the American Dream?"

"Probably." He takes a glass of red wine from a passing attendant. "This tastes terrible."

"Wine always tastes terrible when you're sober. You seen Darcy?"

"She was corralling reporters by the bar last I saw. Tell her I said thanks? I need to say hi to a White House aide or something obnoxious like that." Clint thinks he hears some blasphemy in there, but heads off toward Darcy, who is trying to stop someone from vomiting over the side of the building. He lets her be, because she's handling it like a pro. She turns around and sees him, eyes brightening just a smidge before letting him extend an arm and taking it.

"You look busy."

"I need a drink. Or a bottle. Can I just _have_ the bottle? Purely for aesthetics." Clint nods and reaches over the bar along the wall, grabs a bottle of Grey Goose and hands it off. "Excellent. This'll make for a really excellent photo-op."

"You're almost done."

"I am."

"Want me to take you to dinner?" He looks her up and down. "You'd probably fit in at one of the Broadway holes. Something expensive and European."

Darcy takes a swig from the bottle, glances at what's left, and surrenders it back to the bar. "Yes," she finally says, before kissing him and vanishing back into the crowd.

 

 

"Are you working in my bed?"

"I am." Darcy looks over her glasses and reaches for her beer. "And I'm going to be finishing the last season of _Saved By The Bell_ before bed."

"What is that?"

Darcy raises an eyebrow, but relents, shutting her computer and sitting cross-legged across from him. "You're like a Martian. It's cute. Are those American flag peeps?" 

"Mmhm."

"Gimme." Clint passes them over and she eats three before leaning in to kiss him, lips and tongue sticky-sweet and blue. "You cool?"

"What?"

"You've got this constipated look on your face. Like when we watch _Degrassi_ reruns."

"That's because I hate Degrassi."

"And that's why we watch it. So you'll know you're wrong." 

"Your obsession with mid-nineties high school shows is alarming, but not out of character." Clint eases into the kiss. 

They fucked after Steve's birthday, hit up an IHOP after. Clint's beginning to learn that the way to Darcy's good side is through her stomach. She combs her fingers through his hair and Clint purrs without realizing it, letting his head drop into her lap without argument. He could sleep like this, if his own body would let him, curled against her and listening to the tapping noise as she texts one-handed.

"Hey, Sarge?" Clint looks up. 

"'Sup?"

"Nothing. Just...checking. You got really quiet."

"Banner taught me some stuff."

"Yeah?"

"I mean he doesn't know it, but yeah. Hulk's good at deep breathing. Thinks I'm too high strung."

"Your bromance with Hulk is kind of adorable. He--" Darcy looks up, hearing Lucky whine at the door. "Not as cute as you, princess. C'mere." She launches herself at Darcy, who takes her into her arms and evicts Clint from her lap. He pouts. "Aw, we made your daddy jealous. Poor Hawkeye, no more cuddles."

"Hawkeye doesn't _cuddle._ "

"Does Clint?" Darcy lets Lucky go -- she paws at Clint's hand until he scratches behind her ears. 

He swallows, touching noses with the mutt and closing his eyes.

Loaded question.

 

 

"I wish you would stay." She's only like this the second before she isn't. The second before she throws herself at him, smacks his ass and sends him on his way. 

"Darcy--"

"Get out of here, Hawkeye. Kick some ass."

 

 

This time around, Clint shows up with three weeks of grizzly bear on his face when he keys himself into Darcy's apartment. She's on the phone, flipping through a binder when she sees him. "Hey, I'll call you back." 

"Important?" He's come this time leaving Hawkeye behind, but he can still feel the brush of wings high on his spine. He shudders.

"Not really. You look awful."

"S'pose, yeah." He sniffs. "Need to shave."

"Want help?"

He shows her where the kit in his bag is, and she lathers his face like the skin might burst under her fingers, drags the razor over the beard just the same. Clint closes his eyes. 

"Is this good?" Darcy fingers tremble a little as she curves the blade over his jaw, but Clint opens his eyes and her fingers still. She smiles. "Seems good."

"I had my nose down a scope for three weeks. I forgot to _breathe_ sometimes."

"Doubtful," she murmurs. When his cheeks are bare, she spills aftershave into her hands and smooths it along the skin, massaging her thumbs over his cheek bones. "Well, you don't look like an extra from _Sons of Anarchy_ anymore."

"I wish I spoke your language."

"I speak the language of my instant Netflix queue." She puts away the kit and turns back. "What now?"

Clint kisses her, backs her completely against the sink and bears down on her neck, hands sliding under her shirt. Darcy's murmuring in his ear, something about how she wants him, how she's here, how she's real and ready. He laves his tongue over her skin, tastes the bitterness of her perfume on his tongue and bites. "Darcy, Darcy, Darcy."

"You may only call me Darcy when you are completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy," she murmurs, her British accent false and trembling. Clint huffs in her ear.

"Darcy, Darcy, Darcy."

"You flatter me, Agent Barton."

"I'd like to do more."

She goes soft and pliant under his hands when he finally trails ahead of her to the bedroom, stripping out of her clothing and fighting with his. When she's naked, she crawls backward over her mattress, pulling him in and sealing his body over hers. He nudges her legs apart, dips his mouth down and presses his lips to her thigh. She grips his hair, murmurs, "We'll take care of that in the morning, hmm?" and Clint swoons. "Come on, Sarge, show a girl a good time."

He doesn't mean to take it slow, in truth. There's a heavy, heady part of him that wishes he'd taken her hard and fast against the sink, but something else like this is better. He takes the condom from her hand and rolls it down, carefully lines himself up and pushes into her, feeling her stretch and clench around him. 

She keens against his mouth, wrapping her legs around his waist as he rolls his hips. Everything is electric and connected and sloppy, hasty, needy. Clint keeps looking for the one thing that could make him turn back, but it isn't there. Darcy's got it in for him, has ever since he met her by that truck in New Mexico, her eyes piercing behind her glasses. He thinks about fate and that John Cusack movie and all the ways people can be born apart and together. He thinks about Darcy his friend and now Darcy his partner. He thinks about how fucked he is and how deep into this he's gotten. He even thinks about the double entendre.

" _Clint--_ "

And there it is again. His name. He comes because she claws at his back and screams his name and swears and presses her heels into his ass. He comes because she wants him to, he figures, because he needs to. He doesn't know why anymore. He just knows that he does.

"Come on, _come on_ don't leave me hangin'--"

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart." He holds his cock in her, even as he twitches, as he feels her clenching and it hurts, it feels so good. He holds himself there and presses his thumb to her clit, rocking his hand against her and watching her face as she comes, beating the mattress with her fist and driving him in further. He's gotta ask Banner about these fucking multiple orgasms. He keeps his hand at her clit and she wails with a second one, just a few moments later and it would take a better man than him to admit he isn't jealous as fuck. 

"Uh oh." Darcy sits up. "I think Lucky was witness to our debauchery." Clint sits up, catches sight of the mutt as she waddles in, puts her snout on the end of the bed. "Poor baby."

"Thanks for taking care of her." 

"Well, you know how I feel mangy, adorable orphans." She falls onto her side, pillowing her head on his chest as Lucky gets up to settle heavily at the end of the bed.

 

 

"So how's the girl scout?" Clint ducks another blow from Stark, swears and kicks, sending him flying across the ring. Tony groans. " _No fair--_ "

"Time," Steve says from the edge and ducks in. "Nice, Hawkeye. Good toss. Tony, you need more practice."

"This is _bullshit,_ " he whines, making grabby hands at his towel until Steve rolls his eyes and tosses it at his face. "Anyway, you didn't answer my question. Lewis. What's up? How is she?"

"What?"

"Well, you know, when she's not being my really efficient and really productive and really impressive assistant. How is she?"

"Are you asking me about my sex life?"

Tony wiggles off the floor and grins. "Maybe."

Clint rolls his eyes and swipes Tony's legs out from under him on the way off the mat. From the edge, Steve bites a fist and tries not to grin.

 

 

"Happy six months." 

Clint looks up from where he's reading to find a gift shoved in his face.

"We said--"

"Tonight, yeah. I know. I just...I wanted you to have this now." It's a long, thin box wrapped in a blue bow. Clint unwinds it and gently lifts the lid.

"This is a toothbrush, Darcy."

"It is."

He grabs her around the waist and tugs her into his lap. "Are you trying to say something about my dental hygiene?"

"I'm asking you to move in with me." Clint presses his lips into the curve of her neck and closes his eyes. "Shit. I did this wrong, didn't I?"

"What?" He pulls back. "No. No, it's just…" 

"No, I did. I fucked up." She pulls back, running a hand through her hair. "My mother told me not to, you know, she said--"

"Darcy." She stops pacing and looks at him. He pulls her back. "You stole my anniversary gift."

"You were gonna get me a toothbrush?"

" _Darcy._ "

"Oh." Then. " _Oh._ " She straddles his waist. "Sorry to steal your thunder."

"That's alright." He kisses her. "I'm sure I'll get it back later."

 

 

Sitting across the table from her, in the grimy bistro where he told her about Lucky, where they'd eaten a hundred times, Clint leans forward and steals the red onions from her salad.

"For a now-expert party planner, this is a pretty low-key birthday."

Darcy shrugs. "I'm being selfish, keeping you to myself before Tony drags you out on a bender."

"Natasha will keep me safe. You sure you don't wanna go?"

"Nah." She props her feet up in his chair. "Besides, I already gave you your birthday present this morning."

"And in the early afternoon. And mid-day--"

"Yeah, okay." She nudges his leg. "Don't be givin' it all away."

"How could I possibly?" They stand and Clint drops a twenty on the table. Darcy hooks her arm with his. "I love you," he murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of her head while they head for the tower. 

Darcy grips him tighter, folding into the touch. "I love you, too." 

Later, he'll get drunk with Thor and Tony, while Natasha fishes him out of the deep end of the bar and they all cram into the car waiting outside. He'll get back to his bed, to his and Darcy's bed, and she'll be up, studying and watching terrible, _terrible_ TV. She'll put him to bed and kiss him goodnight and he'll wake up with a hangover, a headache, and a plate of eggs waiting in the kitchen. 

Because he might be a screw up, and he might never be totally okay, but Clint does know one thing. 

He knows what's keeping him going. And walking back to the tower with Darcy on his arm, he's pretty sure he knows what saved him.


End file.
